


Miracles in the Galley

by medusine



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Era, Cooking, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Jewish Character, Jewish Holidays, M/M, Pre-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 17:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16815616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medusine/pseuds/medusine
Summary: Flint discovers Silver attempting to fry something - and finds out far more about him than he anticipated.





	Miracles in the Galley

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to @ellelan who beta-read this for me. Happy Hanukkah!

Flint stood on the deck, contemplating the sun's deep red glow as it sank beneath the horizon after another successful hunt. Soon, very soon, they would no longer be hunting, focused entirely on ousting Woodes Rogers. But for now, Flint savoured the end of this December day, hot as it had been. The sea breeze had brought no relief, only carrying in the scent of salt and ocean.

And hot oil.

Flint wondered if he was imagining it, but the smell wafted back to him again, pungent and heavy. He glanced towards the kitchen and scowled. The current cook, Jenkins, was competent enough, Flint supposed, but why on earth was he attempting fry something in a galley?

And then Flint saw the cook chatting away with a group of men on the deck, chuckling along with them.

“Jenkins, did you leave a pan of oil unattended?” Flint demanded. He'd come up behind Jenkins silently and savagely enjoyed the way Jenkins had jumped with fright.

“No Captain,” Jenkins managed to gasp. “Mr Silver, uh… well he asked me for the use of the galley for a while.”

“Jesus Christ, and you let him have it?”

Flint strode off, keenly aware of the suppressed chuckles and smirks on the men's faces. They all knew what Silver was like in a kitchen, but didn't seem wise enough to realise that this could very well sink a ship.

Thick smoke prickled the back of Flint's throat as he entered the galley, and the Flint saw the flames. The the pan of oil was on fire, and Silver was struggling to pick up a bucket of water.

Fucking water! On a grease fire!

Before Silver even managed to lift the bucket, Flint had rushed to the stove, grabbed the pot's heavy lid and slammed it down over the acrid flames.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!” Flint howled across the kitchen, pulling the pan off the heat.

And then he saw the stricken look on Silver's face, the glistening in those wide blue eyes, and for a second, Flint was transported back to a beach where he'd reprimanded Silver for his ineptitude at roasting a pig.

Silver's face twisted, his eyes fell shut, and then he was wearing the cool, hardened mask he'd started to wear ever since he'd lost his leg, the one he used to hide whatever pain he was in.

“Nothing,” Silver said, letting the bucket thud down onto the floor. “It was a mistake.”

On the large galley table lay little balls of what looked like bread dough. Some sort of fritter, then. Flint couldn't recall the last time Silver had cooked without being made to, and he'd never seen him attempt anything as complex as this.

“It's all right, Captain, I'll clean it up.”

Flint grabbed a rag and lifted the lid off the pan. The stench of burned oil made his eyes water, and blistering heat still scorched his face. “Was that olive oil?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Silver shifted uncomfortably, wincing slightly as he put weight on his boot. “As I said, it's fine. Lesson learned–”

“We can't let good food go to waste.” If he was honest, Flint cared far less about wasting food, and much more about what all this was about. It had to be important to Silver, or he wouldn't have tried to brush it off so swiftly, wouldn't look so uncomfortable at Flint's prodding. “You've prepared these fritters, we should see them cooked.”

Silver gave a nervous chuckle and shook his head. “Do you really want me to burn down this ship?”

“I'll help you,” Flint said, smiling in spite of himself. “To cook these, that is, not to burn down the ship.”

“Fine,” Silver said, in a tone that was obviously supposed to be glib, but came off tense and brittle. “Please yourself.”

Flint went down into the hold in search of oil, still puzzling over the mystery that was Silver. Fried dough was a festive food, and it _was_ the period leading up to Christmas, but Silver had never seemed all that interested in anything religious before. Or in celebrations in general, for that matter.

But then, Silver was a mysterious man. Flint had ascertained it as they'd trained on those hills and Silver had shrunk away from revealing anything relevant about himself, shrouding himself in lies to hide whoever he used to be before they met.

Flint had understood – somewhat grudgingly, perhaps – that it was nothing personal. The look on Silver's face had been indication enough not to insist. They'd grown close in other ways, and it was more than Flint had ever hoped for, after all.

“All right,” Flint announced, from the bottom of the hold. “I found the lard, I think that should work.”

“Lard?” Silver's face appeared above the stairwell, twisting nervously. “Are you sure there isn't anything else we could use?”

“It's one of the best things for frying,” Flint pointed out.

“I know that. But it's pork fat and I didn't want this…” He trailed off, then gave a sigh. “Never mind.”

Flint stood nonplussed at the foot of the stairs, a barrel of lard under his arm. Pork fat. Silver didn't want pork in his festive fritters. Sailors couldn't usually afford to be picky, and he'd never noticed Silver being very particular about food. But then, salted beef seemed to have become the staple on the _Walrus_ , rather than pork. Perhaps Flint simply hadn't been paying attention.

Slowly, Flint put down the lard and went looking for the lamp oil. Up in the galley, Silver had gone completely silent. Flint couldn't even hear the stomp of his boot.

“Here,” Flint said when he returned from the hold, placing a jar of lamp oil on the table where Silver was sitting, staring at his dough balls. “I think it's oilseed. Doesn't have much flavour, but you can get it far hotter than olive oil before it'll smoke and catch fire.”

Silver looked up at him, sharp features softening somewhat. “Well. Thank you.”

The question burned Flint's lips. There weren't any obvious signs, other than this reluctance to eat pork. Or, Flint realised, Silver's inability to cook a pig. Or, for that matter, his constant references to a man named Solomon. And now there was this food, prepared practically like it was a ritual. Flint remembered the story of the Maccabees, the oil burning in the temple for eight days – did the Jews celebrate it around this time of year? With oil?

He must have been staring, because Silver sighed and rolled his eyes. “Say it, then.”

“You're Jewish?”

Silver shrugged. “My mother was. She used to make these at this time of year.”

“What do you call them?” Flint asked, delicately prodding one of the balls. The dough had a pleasing texture.

“Bimuelos.” Silver glanced at him briefly, then down at the table. “I was born in Spain.”

A rush of warmth flooded Flint's chest at these revelations. So few words told Flint far more than he'd ever known about Silver. And Flint knew, from Silver's tone, from the lack of flourish and drama in his tale, that this was real.

“Look, I'm still not quite sure how to fry these,” Silver said. “The last time I saw someone making them, I was six years old.”

“I'll get the oil going,” Flint said. “I'm sure we can manage it together.” He slid his hand over Silver's shoulders as he went by, hoping his touch would bring Silver some reassurance now that he'd revealed himself.

They cooked together in near-silence, Flint letting Silver drop the dough into the boiling oil, watching the balls fizz and puff and turn golden, only nudging Silver when he judged they were cooked and needed to be rescued.

They soon had a plateful piled with fritters, round and golden and mouth-watering. Silver stood before the plate, a faint smile on his lips, then glanced up at Flint.

“They look all right, don't they?” He gave a smile.

“They look delicious,” Flint told him. He glanced at the galley entrance, making sure nobody was watching, and pressed a kiss to Silver's temple. Silver's whole body seemed to relax at the touch of Flint's lips. He let out a long sigh, nudging Flint gently with his shoulders.

“Oi, Mr Silver!” One of the men shouted into the galley. “Are you going to torture us for long? Only it smells fucking divine in there!”

Silver instantly shifted away from Flint, shaking his head with a small chuckle. “Soon, Mr O'Malley!” he called out. “You can't hurry perfection!”

“Can I leave you to it?” Flint asked.

“You can, Captain,” Silver said, suddenly all smiles. “I'll join you later.”

Flint barely knew what to do with himself once he returned to his cabin. His heart both ached in sympathy and glowed with joy after Silver's revelations. He cast about for something, anything, that he could do to thank Silver for his trust, to make the obviously bitter memories a little sweeter. And then it struck him; Flint delved into the coffer where he kept his personal loot, and retrieved a small jar that was sitting at the bottom.

“Well, I think they're a little bland, but the crew liked them well enough,” Silver announced as he hobbled into the cabin, balancing a plate piled with fritters on one hand. “We didn't really have enough sugar left to finish them off the way I like them.”

Flint couldn't help the smug grin that cracked his face at Silver's words.

“What?” Silver asked, carefully putting the plate down onto Flint's desk.

“I found this,” Flint said, holding the jar out for Silver. “Thought you might like it.”

Silver turned the jar in his hands, pulled the large cork out and took a blissful whiff. “Honey. I didn't know you still had any.”

“I was waiting for a special occasion,” Flint said, moving closer to Silver.

“Hanukkah,” Silver said, shifting so that he nestled against Flint's shoulder, so that Flint could wrap an arm around his waist. “That's what it's called. I'm not sure this is exactly the right time to celebrate, it changes every year. But… I wanted to do something. I'm not entirely sure why, I hadn't thought about it in decades.” He looked up at Flint. “Somehow, I blame you.”

“If I must be blamed for your reclaiming your past and your roots, so be it,” Flint said, a tad too solemnly to be entirely serious.

Silver scoffed and poured a generous drizzle of honey onto the cooling fritters. It slid down them lazily, leaving a thick glistening sheen in its wake. Flint's mouth watered.

“You're only saying that because you have a sweet tooth and would use any excuse to share this feast with me,” Silver said with a smirk, plucking a fritter from the pile and holding it up for Flint to taste.

Rather than picking it out of Silver's fingers, Flint bit into it deeply, savouring the thick sweetness of the honey, the crispy rich outside and the light fluffy inside of the fritter. He watched as Silver ate the other half of the fritter, sighing with contentment.

“Well, this only proves that I'm an excellent cook,” Silver announced, licking honey off his fingers, leaning closer into Flint's chest.

Flint bent to kiss the glistening oil and honey from Silver's lips, reeling under the feel of Silver's mouth opening for him, dizzied by the warm glow that burned bright in his heart after what felt like an eternity of darkness.

“You're not a bad cook,” he drawled, attempting to sound unaffected, “when you don't burn the ship down.”

Silver snorted. “I hope you don't mind sticky sheets,” he growled into Flint's mouth. “Because you're paying for that remark, sir.”

With that Silver picked up the plate of fritters, grabbed Flint's wrist in his free hand, and marched to the hanging bed. Flint followed him, light-headed at the prospect of their feast, ready to treasure this moment for the small miracle that it was.


End file.
